Real
by LadyEnterprise - ThePatriette
Summary: "I don't want to just survive. I want to live the way Peeta has always lived—full-throttle, and with the joy I've never been able to grasp for myself until now." My version of the "Real or not real" scene at the end of Mockingjay.


**Behold, my first _Hunger Games _story. I just finished reading all the books for the first time and saw _Mockingjay: Part 1 _last Saturday...so yeah, I'm hooked. New fandom and new characters to love and write about. **

**Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own the _Hunger Games _or any of the characters therein. If I did, I would've let Finnick Odair live. The end.**

* * *

"Katniss! _Katniss!_"

Rue's screams curdle my blood. I clench my bow and take off through the muggy woods of the arena, my heart pounding until I'm sure it's going to force its way out of my ribcage. My legs soon burn from the effort of running uphill and my lungs sting from breathing hard and fast through my mouth. Tears sting my eyes.

"No, Rue!" I scream. "I'll get you this time! I promise—I swear—I'm coming!"

I reach the crest of the hill. There she is, tangled in the net for the millionth time. Her big dark eyes look up at me, full of tears and terror. I grab hold of the thick netting; it falls away and Rue scrambles to her knees, reaching for me with her little hands—

And then I hear the _thwack! _of the spear plunging through bone, muscle, organs. Rue's eyes fix on me and opens her mouth in shock. I'm nauseated and infuriated and terrified. She's all I have left . . . she and Peeta are the only ones left in this arena who can help me and love me unconditionally . . .

I jerk my head up, gritting my teeth to face my opponent. I know it'll be Marvel. He was my first kill. And then my mouth falls open, too.

It's not big, brawny Marvel standing over us with another spear he wants to drive through my head. No, this tribute is of medium height, stocky build, with fair hair and eyes the color of the sky in June. But those blue eyes are crazed now. Crazed like a mutt's. And he's got another spear ready.

_Hijacked . . . _

"Peeta!" I scream, leaping to my feet and holding up my hands. "Peeta, it's me! Don't do this to me, Peeta, stay with me! You remember the bread, don't you? And the pearl? Come on, Peeta, talk to me!"

"Stand back, everyone," Peeta cries, his eyes blazing now like the blue part of a flame. "She's a mutt!"

"No!" I shriek, and he throws the spear.

* * *

_"No!_" I shriek, bolting upright—and I keep shrieking. Gasping, sobbing, high-pitched screams that would put the jabberyjays of the Quarter Quell to shame. But when I suck in a great, gasping breath and open my eyes, I realize I'm not in the arena. This is my bedroom in the old Victor's Village, I'm tangled up in sheets, and I've just had a nightmare.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm out of the bed. _What's real and what's the nightmare?_ My teeth start chattering at the thought. I can't even distinguish between reality and my harrowing dream-land anymore. I'm going insane, aren't I? I can't keep myself together anymore, the way Finnick told me I had to.

_No no no NO! Hold yourself together! My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm eighteen years old. I was a victor in the Hunger Games. I live in District 12. District 12 was destroyed. I killed Alma Coin. I've come back home. Peeta is alive. Peeta isn't hijacked anymore. Peeta is—_

I'm staggering towards the door when it suddenly bursts open. I freeze, half-afraid a white lizard mutt is going to jump into my room. What appears does make me weak in the knees, but not in fear. It's only Peeta, dressed in his own pajamas. I can tell he hasn't gone to sleep yet, making me think I haven't been dozing for very long myself. His blue eyes, soft and very sane, gaze at me in unconcealed love and concern.

"You all right?" he asks cautiously.

My first instinct, strangely enough, is to snap at him. _Yes, I'm fine—go back to sleep!_ But before I can open my mouth my whole resolve crumbles, and so does my face. It can't be attractive. I squeeze my eyes shut, clench my teeth, and start crying bitterly.

"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Shh, Katniss." I hear his bare feet move over the floor and his strong arms wrap around my shoulders. Immediately I collapse against him; he tightens his hold, keeping me on my feet. In a moment I'm able to put weight on my legs again. I wrap my arms tightly around his torso and bury my face in the crook of his neck. He still smells of the bread he baked all day long for tomorrow's Harvest Festival. We ate one of the loaves this evening—Peeta and me and Haymitch and Effie and Greasy Sae—along with a pheasant I'd shot and the pie Greasy Sae helped Effie make.

"It's all right," he whispers, running his hand over my hair. "It's all right, I've got you."

"Stay with me, Peeta—stay with me, please . . ."

"Always, Katniss." He kisses my forehead. "Always."

I close my eyes and nestle my face deeper into his neck. I don't dare loosen my hold. Peeta runs his hand over my hair for what seems like the longest time, until my breathing isn't so ragged and my tears stop. When I draw one last shuddering breath and finally relax against him, he lays a hand under my chin and makes me lift my head.

"Better?" he whispers.

Breathless, I can only nod. We've been this close, physically, countless times. He's comforted me in the middle of the night and I've talked him through his fits, when the remnants of the tracker-jacker venom attack his brain again and make him forget who I am—but in those moments we rarely look each other in the eye. We're usually either cuddling like a couple of frightened children, or I'm sitting with him at the table grabbing his wrists, forcing him to think straight and remember who he is: "Your name is Peeta Mellark, you're eighteen years old, you're from District 12, you were a baker's son, you love to paint and you always double-knot your shoelaces . . ."

This is the first time we've ever stood together in each other's arms, looking at each other, with no one to interrupt.

Peeta moves his hand from my chin to the side of my neck, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. Before I can stop myself, I close my eyes.

"Katniss," he whispers.

I open my eyes, but only for a second—because he's bent his head and he's kissing me like he hasn't done since that evening on the beach in the Quarter Quell arena. It takes my breath away. And the next thing I know, I'm returning the kiss.

It's not an act. I'm not trying to convince anyone. I'm not trying to protect him or me. This is just Katniss Everdeen, the broken, scarred young girl from District 12 trying to tell Peeta Mellark than he's the one person she can't live without. Not "survive without," but "_live_ without."

Because you can survive, and not truly live. I don't want to just _survive_. I want to live the way Peeta has always lived—full-throttle, and with a joy I've never been able to grasp for myself until now.

He pulls away and we stare at each other for a long moment. He smoothes my hair and I reach up, run my fire-scarred fingers over his cheek. There's a light in his eyes I haven't seen in a long, long time.

"You love me," he whispers shakily. He swallows, takes a deep breath. "Real . . . or not real?"

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his head down so his forehead rests against mine. I close my eyes and smile wider than I've smiled since who-knows-when, and I know, without ever having to discuss it, that in a few weeks we'll toast his bread over the first fire we make together. It'll be true this time, not a story we've made up for Capitol cameras.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks, almost pleadingly. "Real or not real?"

"Real," I whisper. "_Real._"


End file.
